


A kiss...

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Kisses... [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: ... to give up control.





	A kiss...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miriya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> If this looks familiar to you, that's because it is. This used to be part of a multi-chapter pain-in-my ass, but I've decided to take that down and make every chapter a standalone oneshot. Apologies for any confusion caused.
> 
> Prompts are from [this list](https://wrathofscribbles.tumblr.com/post/177169224758/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a).

“You’re scowling like someone just stepped on your tail.”  Nyx notes upon finding Cor stalking around the hurling yard (so called for all the lunches lost upon forgiving soil), well over twenty minutes after initially setting off in search of the insufferable bastard.

“And how would you know what that looks like?”  The return is soft, distant, lacking the usual  _“I have better things to do than listen to this nonsense”_ drawl Cor’s perfected over the years.  He doubles back on the line he’s decided on, invisible to Nyx’s eyes but ingrained in the Marshal’s muscle memory, apparently, not even a cursory glance spared for him or a simple _hello_.  Nyx is almost tempted to claim offense for that.  _Almost_.

“I did the stepping once.  With a coeurl.  Her _fond regard_  should’ve killed me but, well, you’ve seen the remainder of that.  Touched it, too.  I particularly like when you use your teeth.”  Nothing.  Not even a blink, just long legs taking long strides over and over.  If he kicks the legs out from under him, will Cor just start rolling to keep the momentum going?

Nyx intercepts, plants his feet on Cor’s path and settles his weight, folds his arms, chin jutting out and smirk in place for the customary look of defiance, silently cheering his victory when Cor stops, blinks a couple of times at him as though finally realising he’s _there_.  Shutters come down in those steely eyes of his, prompting a huff of annoyance.  Really, he’s gone for three weeks and then caught up debriefings and paperwork and so many _goddamn meetings_  that he’d willingly dance a jig under the Cerberus’s paws and be squished like a bug just to avoid any more, and Cor keeps him at a distance?  Really?  _Really?_ Rude.  “Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I need to use you as warping practice and hope I get a lucky shot?  ‘Cuz I’d much prefer -”

“Argentum has filed an application for the Crownsguard.”

“ - the Prince’s friend?  Blonde hair, leather fetish, kinda spunky?”

The _look_  Cor gives him could strip paint, and Nyx can’t help but admire the flex of muscle when arms fold over his chest, knows on an intimate level the strength in them, how easily they close in for the choke hold, the _purr_  in Cor’s voice when he leans in for a whisper, an order for him to _yield_.

Except now is not the time to remember their sparring matches, time apart be damned.

“ _Prompto Argentum_ , yes.”

“And you, what?  Don’t think he’ll make the cut?”

"On the contrary, I know he will.  He’s like you.  Scrappy, and cocky.”  Cor smirks then, a thing so brief he’d have missed it if he blinked, and the concern looming over him like one of Ramuh’s bloated storm clouds passes with a breath of air.  Only for Nyx’s sense of victory to be dashed like shipwreck on rocks when the fucker starts his pacing again.

“No, you are not doing this today.  Not on my watch.  Can you just.  Switch off that Marshal mode for _one_ hour?”

“Make me, Ulric.”

* * *

A little secret he’s proud of keeping close to his coeurl-singed chest: he hates heights.  Despises them.  Loathes them.  Is abso-fucking-lutely shit scared of them.  So of course it stands to reason that he always somehow winds up on the Citadel’s _fucking roof_  when there’s a crisis going on.

That time Iris went missing.  Then the Prince vanishing after her.  Luche’s warping mishap (and the reason every newbie gets the warning to _not warp after a lightning bolt_ ), one of his own drunken escapades with Crowe and Pelna, and that heart attack when Scientia’s kid scrambled on up after a death-defying cat.

And now this.  Except he’s here while sober, and by his own choice, and hauling Cor along for the ride as he feels for the dagger chained to the balcony (installed as a deterrent for _wandering children with too much magic in their blood_ ).  It takes him a few tries to find it, confusing the phantom weight of it in his hands with... other stuff he’s phased through the Armiger for its trace to be known and called upon when needed.  His house keys, the pass written in Crowe’s hand for use of her motorbike (and boy does he love pulling _that_ from the ether), spare change, the solitary tie slung pride of place in his wardrobe, a compass, the torch still needing new batteries, and -

“You keep _handcuffs_  in the Armiger storage?  In the _King’s_ Armiger storage?!”

\- _whoops_.

He catches the items in question on his fingertips, twirls them around on his index finger because he can, because he needs to focus on something other than the awkward laugh threatening to bubble up his throat.  Or is it a hysterical cackle in the face of Cor’s truly _scandalised_ expression?

"What His Majesty doesn't know won't hurt him, Marshal."  He says, voice perfectly steady, perfectly low, and quite frankly he deserves a pat on the back for that if he does say so himself.  For all Cor knows, the reason for their presence in the Armiger _is_  as simple as restraints for offending citizens he can’t simply poke in the eyeball with a chopstick when they get mouthy about his heritage.  It’s not like they’re a gift from Axis in a neon blaze of pink fur (he gave those to Tredd on a dare, shark’s smile wide on his face when collecting the payout from Libertus of all people).  Their purpose for sitting in arm’s reach, albeit a sparkly, warp-touched reach, is _totally_  genuine.  100% innocent, no ulterior motives to be found.

And he deserves to be burned at the Infernian’s pyre for that crock of bullshit.  Not that Cor needs to be aware of it.

“But _handcuffs?_ Of all the items you could possibly -”

“Would you prefer I store cherry flavoured lube in there instead?”

_“No!”_

Well, at least the frowny face and lines seemingly carved into _marble_  are gone.  Panic isn’t much _better_ but never let it be said Nyx Ulric doesn’t work with what he’s given.  He shakes off the embers still clinging to his fingertips from the warp, flicks away the electric _snap_  still tugging at his limbs and wanting him to shoot off in a random direction or return to its source (he really doubts the King would appreciate having 210lbs of sarcastic Glaive dropped on his lap without prior notice or even so much as a _please_ ), and latches onto Cor’s belt buckle, slides right into his personal space and bodily forces him back a step, then two, then three, until he’s fetched up against the very balcony Nyx uses as his target for warping up here.

“Nyx -”

“Challenge _accepted_ , Marshal.”  He breathes, and any protest Cor might have had dies when Nyx claims his mouth as his own, over and over, with lips and teeth and tongue, hot and hungry and _vicious._ It’s enough of a distraction that Cor doesn’t notice the tingle of magic in the air, doesn’t _hear_ it over his own moan when metal falls into Nyx’s free hand again.

The cuff clicks into place, and he chuckles as Cor freezes against him, draws back to scowl at him.  It’s ruined by the flush on his cheeks, the uneven breath, the _desire_ , the oath he hisses when his belt comes off and Nyx drops to his knees.

Teasing Cor, he finds, is the _perfect_  challenge to his fear of heights.

* * *

One week into Prompto’s training and he’s already holding an ice pack to the rather colourful swelling overtaking Nyx’s jaw, trying and _failing_  to keep his mirth contained.

“I warned you the kid was scrappy.”

“Fuck you, Leonis.”

“ _Work for it_ , Nyx.”


End file.
